I’ve thought about it several times since yesterday—Deven and Iyla, how they must have been seeing each other for weeks, for months even—but the thought was so distressing that I banished it whenever it appeared. But seeing them now sends a spasm of pain through me. She probably knows him far better than I do. I bite my lip. I shouldn’t feel betrayed—this is how it works. This is how it has always worked. But how could Iyla spend any amount of time with Deven and still want to go forward with this plan? Can’t she see that he is better than all the others? That he is good? A germ of doubt wriggles into my mind. No. I saw the way the last boy treated that child at the market. She was hungry and he shooed her away like she meant nothing.
Mani is looking at me with a question in his eyes. I press a finger to my lips and move so I can watch Iyla without her seeing me. Her hand rests on Deven’s elbow and she is saying something too quietly for me to hear. Then she stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses him softly on the mouth. My heart breaks a little. I will never have the pleasure of kissing someone I love. Iyla’s kisses might be a lie, but mine are a death sentence.
Deven walks away, and he’s headed right toward where Mani and I are hiding. I grab Mani’s arm and pull him even farther behind the elephant-shaped hedge. But Deven passes by without so much as a glance in our direction. His hands are in his pockets and his head is down like he’s lost in thought. I have the absurd impulse to call out to him, which would be foolish. How would I explain my presence here? But then again…I slip my hand into my pocket and finger the vial. Maybe this could be just the luck I need. I wait until I hear Iyla close her door, and then I motion to Mani. We trail Deven from a distance, keeping close to the houses so that we can duck into a side yard if he turns around.
We follow him all the way out of the neighborhood and into a part of Bala City I’ve never seen before. It’s an upscale shopping district without the mysticism of the market or the mundaneness of Gali Street. Small shops line the streets with window displays that feature a breathtaking array of merchandise: dresses, scarves and saris in silky fabrics, jewelry inlaid with gems of every color, wool rugs in colorful patterns. One shop has a live model shifting between poses, her back to the street to show off her intricate hairstyle. I’m so entranced that my gaze keeps wandering from Deven to the shop windows, and I’m startled when I hear my name.
“Marinda?”
I look up sharply. Deven has turned and spotted us.
“Hi,” he says. “What a nice surprise. What are you two doing here?” There’s not a hint of suspicion in his voice. Warmth rushes to my cheeks and I’m too flustered to respond. It’s Mani who answers.
“We’re just exploring,” he says.
“Exploring, huh?” Deven says. “Well, how would you like to explore some lunch with me?”
“Yes!” Mani says. Deven laughs and looks to me for confirmation. This moment is bigger than lunch. It feels like cracking open the door on my tightly locked life and letting Deven in. It’s dangerous. It’s exhilarating. It’s the only way I can think of to save him.
“If you insist,” I say, and I hope it’s not the wrong answer.
Deven leads us down a side street to a little café. The facade of the building is stone, and the windows and doors are trimmed in deep green. A menu is posted near the door, painted in swirling gold script. Inside, the aroma of roasted meats and spices hangs heavy in the air. At the back of the room, behind a tall counter, a thickset man shouts orders at cooks—half a dozen of them—who are chopping meats and vegetables, stirring thick sauces and sliding flatbread into clay ovens. Tall tables and chairs line the edges of the room, while short tables with cushions for seating fill the middle. Deven turns and touches my elbow.
“Do you want to take Mani and find a table? I can order for us.” I glance at Mani. He does look exhausted.
“Thank you,” I say.
Deven grins. “Sure. What would you like to eat?”
“I’m not picky,” I say. My stomach feels so tied in knots that I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat anything at all. Deven turns toward Mani.
“How about you, pal?”
“I want whatever you’re having,” Mani says. Of course he does. Deven is like a small god to Mani.
Mani and I choose a low table, and I sit on one of the cushions with my legs tucked underneath me. Mani sits beside me and lays his head on my shoulder. I’ve pushed him too hard this morning with all the walking. I pat his back while I try to formulate a plan. Once Deven comes with the food, it’s just a matter of distracting him for a moment so that I can slip the poison into his drink. The thought of him catching me makes my pulse spike, but I won’t get a better opportunity. I wish I could just tell him the truth. But if he didn’t believe me, he’d be in more danger than ever.
After a few minutes Deven arrives with steaming platters of meat pies with green dipping sauce, chunks of tender chicken skewered on wooden stakes, and fluffy white rice. He slides the platters onto the table and says, “I’ll be right back with the drinks.” Why couldn’t he have brought the drinks first? There’s no way I can poison anything on the platters. How can I be sure what he’ll eat? My hands grow moist and I dry them on my skirt. Deven returns with three cups full of creamy, dark liquid. Mani examines his cup skeptically.
“What is it?” he asks.